The two lions of Normandy
by SAINTIXE56
Summary: Wessex is going to pay its treason. At long last King Ragnar is going to serve Justice. His massive fleet of invasion needs a wintering place close to the English coast yet far away enough from his spies. Has Time come to forgive Rollo whose help is needed? Set in episode 11. Hoping you will like some really new yet historical characters. Reviews appreciated. Thanks.
1. Chapter 1

The Room is long, much longer than the one in Kattegat and it has a table which keeps apart the ones who preside on the high seat and the commoners. Like in the days of his father.

The wood of the table shines like a mirror through good waxing and it smells of bees. Half covering it, a carpet with a design he has never seen, warms its support further. The carpet reaches the floor of stones. On the table top, an elegant enamel jug reaches in his opinion absurd height. His stepmother would love it. Until her eyes rest on the simple and rushed bouquet of wild flowers which crowns the long stem. Not queenly enough yet certainly more welcoming than Aslaug great hall. On each side on the walls benches await the tired visitor. Chimneys on both sides will warm some more the guest when next winter is coming.

The carpet falls to the floor in elegant folds and a guard keeps his vigil by some sort of red banner which looks uncomfortably familiar. Near one of the cold fires, a hound snoozes, content, by what looks like a chewed leather ball. This hall in all its grandeur and homeliness hurts him more than any blow he has suffered. It smells different yet it smells of the comforts of home when Father was just an earl and Gydda was alive.

The servant who has allowed him in the great hall is now gone, leaving him alone with the guard. His eyes search the walls and their curious tapestries. The one which runs on its right seems to tell the story of some giant who looks and now this is strange since he is in Christ God land… like Thor? A Thor with a very dark mane. and a Frank moustache. The hammer which looks different is put in good use doing what hammers do. The Jotuns who fight him are like Thor, they do look just as odd. Their swords are curved and their helmets are of a curious shape like the cap of the Arab merchant his mother is so proud to show around when she wants to prove than under her rule Kattegat has been thriving a lot more than it has even been. He hates her sly smile as nobody can miss who is the target of the slur.

The story progresses as it is clear this Thor is not the master of thunder. This Southern lord of the Hammer is crushing his enemies and the Cross of Athelstan is resplendent at the warrior side. A winged creature who is not a Valkyrie because it has no weapon flies above his head showing him the enemy to slay.

The tall man shakes his head. How curious these Christians are who celebrate the Hammer God, who approve of Odin faithful servants yet prefer a god who has died. Mind you he has resurrected. He sighs; Odin has hung nine days on a tree pierced by spears. Athelstan would tell him that Odin has died like this other God. Norse and Christian people may have a lot more in common than they think. Maybe they are the same people just apart by a different language and a sunnier summer. Maybe the man whose name is not to be pronounced has been right all along:has Time come to make alliances?

The master of the hall is taking his own good time unless he is somewhere far away from the hall. Franks love houses which are like rabbit warrens, full of hallways and little rooms and more rooms unlike you get dizzy walking through them. Sitting on the bench, he spreads his long legs and prepares himself for a nap following the example of the unperturbed dog when he notices the table cloth moves. Not a lot, but it moves. It is another pet or the pup of the older hound? The distinct giggle which meets his ears sets his mind at rest.

There is no hidden killer here but the would-be prankster deserves a lesson. Nonchalantly, he stands up to walk a bit further away from the table to walk back to it, feigning to try and find a better global view of the tapestry. The cloth is now immobile but the hidden imp has not run away safe in his touching trust that nobody has seen him. The visitor seems fascinated by the tapestry while the guard is resting now on his other leg. All is quiet in this peaceful afternoon. Until like summer lightning, the draping folds are lifted on one single swift move to reveal the owner of the mocking laugh.

Kneeling on the floor a little girl who seems a barely older version of someone he wishes but cannot erase from his memory looks at him, proud, daring him to catch her. He certainly tries, but the child is quick; and runs away from his grasp to the side of the high seats until she sits shameless on the smaller one dangling her short legs from the seat. Daring him more to try and get hold of her. The guard seems more awake; still, he does not move as if he has witnessed too many of these games. Proud of her success at this first round, the engaging girl looks like she is going to … And she does as she goes back under the table waiting for the visitor to play his part in this game of not hide and not seek.

The guest ignores her; he has better things to do, because there is a treasure under the table. A wooden sword which has seen better days along a diminutive shield. Another Frank shield which could do with fresh pain rests by a wooden horse on wheels, A very small helmet searches for a head; while somewhat covered by the shield , two legs of what must be the owner of the helmet are poking out.

As his hand gets hold on the horse, a voice is heard. Too bad he cannot make head or tail of it. The same sentence is repeated. This time, he gets he is not supposed to play with the horse!

- _ **What is your name? Name? Nomen? Nomin?**_

The answer is just as barely comprehensible. Geirlaug? But the rest makes no sense as Adeela? He better stops this foray in Frank. The child is not fussed about his silence as she engages him in conversation. Of what she says, he has no clue but she smiles and this smile, given with such sweet innocence is a knife digging deep in his chest. She is so much like her. But she is not her; she is different. Physically, she must have her mother hair but the rest is claimed by her sire. She pats the stones by her side as if she is inviting him to sit proceeding to show him each and every bit of her treasure in an incomprehensible language where he can pick her and there a few words of his own.

The master of the house is not hurried to meet his visitor but his daughter is happy to offer his refreshment in a tiny chalice which would raise admiring whistles in Kattegat. The guard is not bothered by the disappearance of the guest. Not that he suspects him on witchcraft. The visitor head is showing above the table board. When he hears a step he remembers from the past, only then he stands up and let the fold of the cloth to hide once more the elfin creature.

The lord of this great hall is tall; not as tall as him. But tall, some grey hair has started to creep up on his temples but he has not changed much. The father of this guest hhas called him once bitch. Maybe, it is because he who will not be named, he who is outlawed in Kattegat, he who has shamed his ancestors has always shown better taste than his guest's sire.

The new comer climbs quickly the few steps of the stage and sits as he flicks the guard to leave the room. This time, the silence in the hall is tense. The two men are face to face. The young man's short sword is by inches away on his hand just like the axe which stands idle by the taller high seat is just a breath away for the hand of its owner.

\- _**Father, I cannot find Sis!**_

Now another person enters the great hall; now, the sleeping dog is awake grabbing the ball to bring it to his master. His young master and its tail is wagging a merry dance. The boy, the older boy not that he is that old, just older than his sister walks calmly to the visitor and stands up but a feet away looking at him with an open mouth like he was a thing to be wondered at.

\- _**Geirlaug, show yourself. We have a guest.**_

This time again, the drapes reveal the little girl who walks quietly to her brother side jabbering more Frank. The guest crouches in front the pair of siblings. They are indeed like two peas in a pod and their father can harbou no doubt about their parentage. The boy' iris must take their color after his mother but he is his father kinsman without the shadow of a doubt. Lucky boy.

The young man smiles.

- _ **It has taken you a long time to give me playmates, uncle.**_


	2. Chapter 2

A wave hits, which submerges him… as the two children shift from immobile waiting to an outburst of frantic action.

 _ **\- It is Bjorn. It is Cousin Bjorn!**_

He is a North Man. A Septentrionali bellator. The girl hesitant Norse echoes the more robust one of her brother. A Viking. A real one! Yes, he is taller than Dear Father. Is it true he is also a bear? How big was the dragon? When will Uncle visit Rouen?

The wave combines two children who have made up their mind to extract as many information they can from this giant cousin who lives in the fabled North where winters last almost half the year, where night competes with day. Not only must he fight the physical enthusiasm of his cousins who jump around him like unruly goat kids; he must answer to all their questions which rock him like the turbulent waves when a long ship has endured a tempest at sea, now settled.

Their many, many questions. Their endless questions put through with such joy as if he was the bearer of good news.

This man who lives in a land where snow lasts so long unlike in boring Frankia, where boys fight from an early age, this man shadow when it reaches Christian lands has been used to bring fear in the heart of English and Frank men alike. Not here though; not here in Christian Normannia. This is a Dane Law territory with a Latin accent. Here, the great warrior is home!

The boy speaks a better Norse than his sister albeit with an odd softness in the accents as for her, the language blends Frank with his own native tongue in the most peculiar way. Still he can make sense of what they say. And it brings to his lips a sincere smile. Where his half-brothers were shy as not born from the same mother, his cousins are generous in their undisguised admiration. He is Bjorn, Bjorn, the man and no more the faceless relative. The simple man wonders what has caused such glee, trying to guess what his uncle has come up with to give the children such cause to greet him with love. Because though they have never met him, his little cousins love him. They sincerely love him and this love troubles him hurting him again like a great wave splashing on the deck of the battered ship at sea.

Why should he not love them back, the two innocents who seem to have always hero-worshiped him? Are they responsible for their sire treason to his people? No! They are not.

Ragnar has but once always spared children. The death of Horik daughters has forever darkened the mood of the King of Kattegat as an indelible stain. Ever since it has happened, the slaughter of the little girls is acting like the continuous dripping of poison over the head of the evil Jotun Loki. Slowly but steadily corrupting his soul, killing him softly one drop at a time. Where he should have killed Erlendur, he had chosen to kill all his sisters. The massacre of the innocents was more than a mistake; it has become a curse.

What would Ragnar think of his nephews? Aside they take more from his brother than their mother though her influence is undeniable from their behaviour, what would The Man Who Raided Paris say? Geirlaug seems to be just as thoughtful as Gydda was. The boy who stands by her is bouncier yet his questions are marked by some afterthought like if he knows at his tender age things are more than what they look at first glance.

Ragnar would roar and catch the two piglets who now squeal trying to free themselves from the arms which are lifting them effortlessly on each side of the great man. The children giggle, trying to fight him off.

Geirlaug gets free the first to return to her secret domain under the great table joined by her brother. Both reappear on the other side of the board to climb up the stairs leading to their parents. One to sit on her father lap while her sibling leans by his mother.

 _\- I was waiting for the right woman to bear them for me._

A long time ago in a different world, the right woman was not the lady who sits by Rollo. In a farm, a different man was pinning for a different woman. This was a happy time when his sister was alive and his uncle was always bringing him something from his raids. Ragnar was accusing him of spoiling his heirs; today he is returning the compliment.

Today, Lagertha sits on a high seat far from Frankia as the woman he must call aunt puts her hand on the large paw of her husband. And again, it hurts him to witness how the smile of this woman warms up the tired face of his uncle. These two are a couple like his parents were in Kattegat before the wanderer came with his sun-stone… Oddly enough, a flash memory brings back a feast at Earl Haraldson great Hall during Yule when the long vanished sons of this Lord of Kattegat was alive. His parents were making merry and a frown free Earl was smiling to an un-harassed Siggy

Rollo's sigh was unmistakable. The grass is always greener in the neighbour's pasture. Lagertha had chosen Ragnar. Rollo had been discarded. Not by this woman. Where Lagertha has seen no greatness, an emperor's daughter has seen devotion and love. Lagertha loss is Gisla gain.

\- _Welcome, Lord Bjorn. The Duke and his family are happy to greet you. … With **peace** in our hearts._

The woman who has followed Rollo but a few instants later is tall, certainly taller than his mother. It is said that it is for her his uncle has betrayed his father. Now he recognizes her: the woman of the red banner. The woman, who went galvanizing the tired energy of the defenders of the Walls, the woman, who bloody shied was standing at the end of the bridge when his mother attack failed, is sitting by his uncle. He has heard of her.

This is the princess who should have married him, who should have crowned him King of Frankia. This woman who looks so much like Gydda; an older, much older version of his sister. A sister still younger than him, just as quiet, just as wise; a woman whose love does not belong to him.

\- _Your nephew has come from far off lands, Your Grace. Allow me to order refreshments to be brought. Please, be sited. Our palace of Rouen is glad to welcome the nephew of its Duke. Come with me Guillaume._

Indeed, very Gydda-like. Down to the air of authority. Or should he say the wisdom his sister had. If it pleases Rollo to have as consort a woman who keeps him in leading strings, good for him! This said, his aunt unless he is mistaken is not faking her affection. This is not Kattegat where words are honed to inflict pain. His uncle's duchess means peace for what it says. If he walks in her hall in peace, he is really welcomed in it!

\- _They remind me a lot of two children I remember in Kattegat._

The words lighten Rollo's wary mood. His uncle has always been there for him, for his sister. Where his relation with Ragnar may have been insecure, hostile and now at loggers head, his affection for his nephews, for the children of Ragnar has always been sincere, as immense as the shadow of his frame through the door opening at the farm. A large chunk of meat which was always tender and careful not to hurt, never indifferent, always caring. Where is this man gone? When did he leave? Has he ever belonged to this benighted past? Is it true there has been at one point such bad blood between Ragnar and him that what he looks now as the happy memories of childhood are but the dormant though bitter festers of an abscess?

Rollo turns to his daughter, caressing gently her locks.

\- _A long time ago, Bjorn had a sister. I hesitated to give you her name. I loved her. … I love her still very much. The Gods, erm, I mean God took her in her Paradise as she was worthy of it. Geirlaug, this is Gydda's brother._

The child moves down from her father's lap. Bjorn does not understand until she stands in front of him lifting her arms so he can pick her up. As he does, he can feel a tear rolling from her cheek as she hugs him.

- _Poor Bjorn. Poor cousin Gydda._

The gentle hug opens a wound he has kept closed; he has refused to acknowledge. So many wounds, his mother absence at the time of the birth, Aslaug pretence to care and the awful day of his return when he has realized somebody was missing on the pier. The thoughtful child who has done nothing, who certainly is not responsible of this tragedy has lanced the abscess he was denying for so long as he blurts out.

\- _Siggy… Siggy is dead and I was not home. Not there for her. She died alone. So much alone!_

What is he doing moaning about a dead child when he stands in front of a traitor? A long sigh escapes Rollo; such a long heavy sigh, the little girl looks worriedly at her Sire.

Bjorn then puts the little girl down as she looks at him ever so watchful, ever so like Gydda who was always taking things seriously trying really to understand them, to see through them for what they really were. Just like Mimir whose head knows the secrets of the Nine Worlds.

\- _I am glad you were not named Gydda. When one gives the name of someone who has died of ill health or of an accident, it may cause these people to suffer the same fate. I like Geirlaug! Do you know why?_

The jumble of Frank and Norse words come back; it seems that she knows. She should and she giggles as he tickles her. Oath Spear. Another symbol of Rollo asserting his loyalty to the Franks? Or to his wife, more likely!

Once again, he lifts her this time over his neck as he was a horse. Her legs dangle on his side of his neck. The last time he has done so was with his daughter. He has been a pitiful father; he prays the God he will be a better cousin.

He can see Rollo has flinched at the dire news. Losing Siggy the Elder and now Siggy the Young. The gods are cruel. Yes, the Gods are mistaken again. Siggy the Elder died at least courageously, to her the Golden Doors of Valhalla will be opened. But little Siggy, the child has had no time to prove her worth. Is his child, this treasure he has so badly kept from harm condemned to the frozen realm of Helheimr?

Oath Spear has not stopped speaking. This time, there are way too many Frank words to understand the riddle.

\- _She says she will pray for your child. She knows Our Lord Jesus welcomes children in his Valhalla._

 _\- Suffer little children, and forbid them not to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of Heaven. Indeed we shall pray for her. Isn't it, child?_

Aslaug has reported the death of his daughter like she would have informed him of an old dog found dead. At her feet, he knows he has to lay down the drowning of his child. He says nothing; he stores. Each and every slur and wrong, he stores. One day, they will burst open and it will be a day of reckoning. Aslaug's children are innocent. Even Nasty piece of work Ivar is innocent but not his mother! Aslaug, his step-mother…

And now this woman. This woman who is unlike the Queen of Kattegat a Christian, this woman so much unlike the daughter of the dragon-slayer is really sorry for his loss. There is no doubt his child is going to be remembered in this Christian Hall. Where nobody remembers her and her mother in the North, here, in warm South she is going to be remembered. True, the sacrifices will be made in an alien language by foreign priests following mysterious rituals played in front of unexplainable Gods. But they will be made. If this Christian Valhalla welcomes his child as he knows it will be because there is no reason to doubt the child who has the age of his daughter when he returned, this is good. This is right. If Odin has no room for children under his roof of spears. Oath Spear will keep his little girl memory alive. Yes, it is fitting that a little girl should keep another one safe and happy. His hand pats his cousin head and he smacks her cheek with a sonorous kiss as she smiles shyly at him.

Where in Kattegat dissension reigns between The Ones who are on the High Seats, here the lord of the hall is content with his lady. Yet it is a true princess of the blood who has wedded a bear from the North. The bear is tame and his cubs are happy. Is there any son of Ragnar really happy under his father's roof?

- _I like your daughter very much and her brother too, uncle. Lagertha would approve of them._

Leading comes now the boy carrying a plate of something looking like sweetbreads which he offers to his kinsman. Such a young boy yet already a trained courtier makes his bow to his cousin as he now goes and present the plate to his parents.

A seat, not as high as the one on the stage, still quite exquisite in design, is brought in by a servant as another carries a tray laden with cups.

- _Tell me of Kattegat!_


End file.
